should His sepulchre be holier
than other graves, when He that made the holiness is there no longer?"

"But where then is our Lord?" asked Bertram, rather perplexed.

"He is where thou wouldst have Him," was the quiet answer. "If that be
in thine heart, ay:--and if no, no."

Bertram meditated for a little while upon this reply.

"But seest thou any reason, Father, wherefore I should not become a
great man?" he said, reverting to his original topic.

"I see no reason at all, Bertram Lyngern, wherefore thou shouldst not
become a very great man."

Still Bertram was dissatisfied. He had an instinctive suspicion that
his great man and Wilfred's were not exactly the same person.

"But what meanest by a great man, Father?"

"What meanest thou?"

"I mean a warrior," said the lad, "dauntless in war, and faithful in
love--brave, noble, and high-souled, alway and every whither."

"And so mean I."

"But I mean one that men shall talk of, and tell much of his noble deeds
and mighty prowess."

"Were he less brave without?"

"He were less puissant, Father."

Wilfred did not reply for a minute, but devoted himself to hanging
golden apples from the stiff boughs of his very medieval tree.

"The heroes of the world and those of the Church," he said at last, "be
rarely the same men. A man cannot be an hero in all things. The
warrior is not the statesman, nor is neither of them the bishop. Thou
must choose thy calling, lad."

"Yet a true hero must be an hero all the world over, Father--in every
calling."

"How much hast heard of one Master Vegelius?"

"Never afore this minute."

"I thought so much."

"Who was he?" inquired Bertram.

"The best and most cunning limner of this or any land."

"Oh! Only a scriptorius?"

"Only a scriptorius," said the monk quietly--not at all offended. "And
it may be that he never heard of some of thy heroes."

"My heroes are Alexander and Charlemagne," said Bertram proudly. "He
must have heard of them."

Wilfred dipped his pen in the ink with a rather amused smile.

"Now, Father Wilfred!"

"I was only thinking, lad, that when I set up my hero, he shall not be a
man that met his death in a wine-butt."

"What?--Oh! Alexander. Well, we have all our failings," admitted
Bertram, reluctant to give up his favourite.

"Thou sayest sooth, lad."

"Father Wilfred, who is thine hero?"

"Wist thou who is God's hero?" asked the illuminator, laying down his
pen, and fixing hi